“I’m not that youthful. You’re not that old.”
“You are,” he says, laughing, “one year and four months younger than me. That’s more than the lifespan of the brine shrimp. That’s, like, one brine shrimp and one dragonfly. That’s fifteen bees younger! And there’s this mayfly—”
“It lives for an hour, right? It has no mouth and no digestive system and it’s made to have sex and die.” I stifle the urge to crack my knuckles. “Just like college boys.”
The dimple in his left cheek appears. “So you watch Animal Planet. So what? Young people watch Animal Planet.”
“Not many.”
“You’re still . . . 10,958 mayflies too young for the Captain.” Then, squaring himself to me—the toes of his socks inches from my mine, his dimples at eye level, and his green eyes warming my face—he places his palm on top of my head, measuring. He lifts it and hovers it just above, so I can still feel my hair catching on his callused skin. My whole scalp tingles.
Chad grins. “Must be this tall to ride.”
“Ride what, Chadwick?” Jessa squeezes past us, Jeremy on her heels. She looks cool and slick in a long white tank top and electric-blue leggings, and Mike Wazchowitz misses an easy volley at the Ping-Pong table when she bends over to look in the fridge.
Clearing his throat, Chad turns on her, blushing to the bright blond roots of his hair. “Mind your business, Jenessa.” He stalks off and plops back in the beanbag with his drink.
As Jeremy pours two cups, she twists her hair into a red-gold rope, then releases it, the strands winding apart, spreading out, shining. Her smile is a white slice in the dim basement.
Jeremy hands her the drink and asks what I want.
“Captain and Coke, please.”
He lifts both eyebrows.
This is the point in the evening where I’d usually pick a spot and commence leaning against the wall with a beer and a powdery handful of Doritos until Jessa swept Jeremy up and away to the Damon Salvatore side of the bed. Then I’d retreat to the snowy quiet of outside and walk the ten minutes home alone, safely feeling my feelings. But I did come dressed to kill, so instead of doing that, I take my drink and sit on Chad’s bed to watch the Ping-Pong game. I decide to fake it till I make it. (This is one of Lindy’s big Tips for a Happier, Healthier Family. “Positive action can open the door to positive feelings,” she would say. “Put your sneakers on instead of your slippers, your jacket instead of your bathrobe.” On Dad’s first real date with Lindy, he wore his tux.)
Even though I don’t especially care about the Ping-Pong match, and I suspect the guys don’t especially care if I care, I root Jeremy and Mike on in turn. They aren’t terrible, and the more I sip my Captain and Coke, which tastes stronger than Chad’s, the more intense the game seems, the funnier the ambitiously failed swings, the more dazzling Jessa and Jeremy are, with his hand in her back pocket, her breast on his biceps, their mouths darting together and flitting apart like dragonflies (nearly four of which I am younger than Chad). After my second cup, handed to me by Mike on his way back from the mini fridge, I think I’m doing a pretty good job of making it.
When I’m quiet and still for too long at parties, I start looking for ways to slip out—I have that in common with Dad—but tonight, I’m committed. So when that starts, I leave the bed to watch Chad and Omar play Mario Kart. They offer me a controller, and Chad smiles over his shoulder at me during a break in the action. Though my eyes are zooming in and out of focus a bit, I’m hotly aware of his teeth, very white, and my own teeth, marginally dull from childhood braces. I bet the Prices brush their perfect teeth with bottled water when I’m not around to shame them into using the tap. Did I brush my teeth before the party? Do I have lipstick on my teeth? Does my breath smell like Doritos? Does Chad’s? No—when I lean in toward the TV, he smells like boy. Like plaid flannel sheets and spicy deodorant and socks that aren’t unclean, per se, but might’ve been hibernating under the bed for a week before he found them and pulled them on, because socks are socks to a guy like Chad. I respect that. I funnel my third drink into my mouth during a break in the game to stop myself from leaning in farther and whispering something “witty” about socks into his perfect seashell ear. He lists heavily to the left as he tries to make a hairpin turn around a penguin, then winces as the unstoppable Wario and immovable penguin collide nonetheless. I like the way he tries to steer with his whole body. I like the way he flinches when he crashes, as if in actual, 3D pain. I like the way he exists—another thought I close my lips around to keep from whispering.
Jessa unravels from Jeremy and drops down on the rug beside me. “I’m glad you’re having fun, Im,” she coos, her syllables dragging slightly.